


Anything Simmering - or, The Elegant and the Bad Baby.

by NothingToDoWithMe



Series: Anything [3]
Category: The Goodies (TV), The Goodies RPF
Genre: Adult baby, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, In-Jokes, Nurses, Older Woman/Younger Man, Porn, Referenced Groping, Some Humor, Transvestite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 12:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingToDoWithMe/pseuds/NothingToDoWithMe
Summary: More speculation from the naughty 'Miss K'. She's been watching 'Way Outward Bound' and thinks she detects a tender secret.





	Anything Simmering - or, The Elegant and the Bad Baby.

**Author's Note:**

> RPF Alert! This did not happen, to my knowledge.  
> But it might have...

Alone at last! Resplendent in snazzy purple and cream, B gazes excitedly at the ‘select’ magazine which he’s extracted from his locker and laid open in front of him atop its plain brown envelope. A hasty timecheck shows a generous twenty minutes to spare. Great! With his right hand, he slides his belt carefully out through its buckle with an anticipatory thrill.

Outside in the corridor a popular actress, instantly recognisable even (or perhaps especially) from behind, tiptoes as quietly as she can in her solid costume shoes past one, then two dressing room doors, coming to a halt by a third. Should she try, or not? Will he even remember? Heart pounding, she taps out the secret knock she’s kept in her heart. But, even after half a minute, there is no reply. Oh, well; maybe she’s too late and he’s already gone to Makeup. More likely, it’s a sign that she’s getting a little long in the tooth for such hoojamaflicks.

She drops her fist and is about to turn away when she hears a deep growl and a slapping sound from within, followed by an upsettingly high-pitched giggle. Downcast, the clearly superfluous lady checks the corridor again – good; at least there were no witnesses to her humiliation. She’s had a lucky escape. Still, who could resist a quick peep through the keyhole, I ask you?

Admiring his favourite page, B starts to ease open his v.nice but v.tight TV flares. “Ow! Shit! Bugger!” In his excitement, he’d forgotten to go easy on his left thumb, which still isn’t quite full strength. Maybe the tailor was right; zips are more modern and far less trouble. Which is probably why Jean had encouraged him to opt for all those very ornamental but fiddly buttons: trying to put another barrier between her wandering property and the makeup artistes. Well, she needn’t have bothered: to a girl, they all just firmly smack his groping hands away. Although that new one looks like she might not, eventually, if he keeps trying…

There’s a knock on the door and a familiar voice calls, “Are you all right in there, Bill?” More expletives from Mr O, sotto voce. He stuffs the magazine under his script.

“Who is it?” he winces, although he’d know the scrumptious Joanie’s voice anywhere. It was, after all, her proximity during rehearsal which inspired him to this spot of last-minute light reading. His unnecessary question is merely killing time whilst he gingerly does his belt up again without the aid of his left thumb – and he hasn’t even tried to tackle the two fly buttons he’d managed to get open before the pain hit.

“Only Joanie! Are you decent?”

“Who, me? Never, ha-ha!” Oh, very well. She probably won’t spot his little deficiency of grooming, and the precious minutes are slipping by. He shakes the snug-fitting, high-collared jacket as closed as he can make it – and tugs his rather strained yellow Goodies t-shirt downward, successfully disguising neither the gaping fly nor his hedonistic tum. B hardly notices, though, since he’s fidgeting with his fringe in the mirror.

“Come in and find out!” He really must learn to lock himself in before starting this kind of thing. Could have been highly embarrassing.

Joan enters, closes the door and trots over to him solicitously. “I was just passing and heard you shout out, dearie – is anything the matter?” B is far too gallant to comment that this corridor leads only to Grae’s dressing room.

“Oh, it’s only this damn thumb…I pulled it a few weeks back; thought it was mended but I’ve just set it off again.”

“Yes, I heard about that – caught in one of Gracie’s plaits, wasn’t it?” she bursts out laughing, visualising the rangy Graeme, awkward in St Trinian’s garb complete with straw hat – a man who never really took to drag, unlike Tim… _Good! Hope he feels stupid in it_ – then she realises that the joke isn’t so funny to B. “Sorry, darling. Would you like me to fetch Gr—” she bites her tongue – “D’you need a medic?”

“Ah. So Dr Garden _has_ got a younger patient in with him; thought as much! That’s rough on you – poor Joanie.” He takes in her supreme figure which, unlike during the rather difficult rehearsals, is now resplendent in full matron’s get-up complete with fresh white starched cap. “Blimey, if I could have _you_ , I certainly wouldn’t be looking elsewhere.”

“Ooh, you do say the nicest things, Mr O!” He looks a bit sheepish at this. “But, you see – I am a silly sausage,” the experienced comedienne continues; “To make it worse, I made the mistake of peeping through the keyhole. Tut, tut! That cowboy’s going to get saddle sore – if he doesn’t catch a chill first!”

Bill laughs like a drain at this double whammy, covering his eyes and shaking his head. “Oh, stop, that’s quite enough detail, Joanie! Now I’ve got a truly horrible picture stuck in my mind – thank you very much!” With a girlish, gap-toothed titter, Joan collapses elegantly onto the chair close beside him. It’s nice that he enjoys her jokes. Some men she’s worked with are jealous of a woman with wit. Maybe it’s because these boys write all their own stuff – and so well, too; it’s a great part they’ve written for her.

“Me too, worse luck!” she points out, with a grimace and a sigh. “Serves me right for being such a Keyhole Kate, I suppose. Incidentally, lovey, what _were_ you doing, to wrench that thumb again?”

Slight pause. “Er… I was adjusting my dress.” She will be looking _down there,_ now, B is coyly pleased to realise.

“Look more like trousers to me,” she grins. “And very ‘with-it’ trousers they are, too,” adds Joanie, with an appreciative pinch of his muscular thigh. _The fashions for men are such a treat these days – a girl’s eye simply can’t help being drawn to their snugness in certain areas…._

“Got to give the people what they want!” explains B, elated by the attention. He dances exuberantly around the carpet squares to show off the suit, including a spin to flare out the trendy jacket and highlight his hip area, singing, “D’you love my legs, both back and front?” She chuckles, recognising one of his kinkiest songs from the wireless – one of the many swiftly-produced Oddie paroditties whose dubious lyrics seemed to slip, barely rehearsed, let alone fully examined, right under Auntie’s nose.

He finishes with a clapped flourish. “Ba-ba-ba-baa! Hey, look – my thumb feels much better now. Not worth holding up taping for, anyway.”

“I see.” The conversation somehow seems to have nowhere to go from there. Pity. She takes a deep breath and rises gracefully, smoothing dark blue fabric briskly over poised hips. “Well, see you in Makeup, darling.” A glance at the glass; a pointless pat at her already perfectly-pinned blonde curls.

Only fifteen minutes left now. _(Ooh, you’re really turning me on, my Joanie; just go, so I can do something about it.)_

About to make an unwilling exit, something makes Joan pause. She follows B’s tell-tale, hungry gaze over to the dressing table beside her – aha! He hasn’t hidden that _magazine_ very well. She puts two and two together, regarding the fly buttons. Goodness, it seems everyone’s ‘at it’ in some way or another before each show – except, of course, _her,_ on this occasion. (Well, we all have different ways of dealing with nerves; there’s that little bottle I still keep in my own locker, although I promised myself I’d leave it at home.) She ought politely to leave the boy to his own diversions but, by god, she’s bored and, like a fool, she’s let that keyhole incident just now get to her. Oh, please, let’s have a little fun, too – I still had a pulse, last time I checked!

Joan clears her throat and gives B a stern look. “Hm-hmm, I wonder: were you doing your buttons **up** , or **un** doing them, Master William?” Teasingly, she skips over to take a peek under his script –

“God, no – please don’t, Joanie!” He freezes with fear. Whyever did he have to twirl all the way to the other side of the floor?

Gathering his wits, B sprints but – _Too late, Ethel!_ In for a penny, in for a pound, she’s plonked her ample rear on top of his little secret. The owner of the juicy paperweight gives B a playful smirk. “Get on with you, I’m a big girl, you know; I’ve seen plenty of naked ladies – and one or two men, I’m happy to say!” It’s too late; he was too slow. She’s whipped his special number into the open and is peering at the photo.

“Ah. Right. Hmm! Well done, lad, one-up to you: that’s certainly an arrangement I’ve **not** quite seen before. Gosh! I bet you keep this artistic gem under lock and key?” She’s eyeing the locker, whose door is slightly ajar.

_For god’s sake, Joanie, don’t do any more nosey-parkering!_

“NORMALLY, YES.” (Through gritted teeth.) He walks over and tries to take the magazine off her but she won’t let it go; clasping it to her bosom and waving a pacifying hand.

“Not that I find it shocking! It’s rather charming, actually. They’re obviously consenting adults and having a high old time.” She is looking at it again, a fingertip to her cheek – and for much longer than B had expected her to. Could it be –? Is she actually sympathetic; even, dare he hope, _interested_ in the same kind of scenario? Peeping around her intoxicating shoulder and shyly venturing a sensual hand onto the woman’s warm, solid waist, B admires the image for the hundredth time. He relaxes lightly against her arm.

“She – she reminds me of you, you know. And I don’t just mean the hat.” The normally boisterous man is actually blushing at her, looking unusually vulnerable. Surely he’s not lonely too? But he’s married!

“Gosh, what a compliment!” Her turn to glow. Joan considers her next move. Why not? They are both apparently searching for a bit more from life. She gently lays down the magazine and shifts her body to stand very closely in front of his compact one, her abundant curves offering themselves for examination – if _only,_ thinks B, if only she’d take off…

Sims begins efficiently improvising along the lines she’s hastily gleaned from the magazine. The text was not in English but the meaning was plain enough from the photos. As though magically reading the young man’s mind, the prim matron insouciantly unfastens two buttons of her high-necked dress. “Oh, whoops-a-daisy! My fingers must have slipped – a side-effect of shock, I imagine. Now we’re _both_ improperly dressed, aren’t we?” She tips him a huge wink, masking her nerves. _What if this goes wrong? Carry on – don’t lose momentum!_

She gives him a clearer prompt. “ _Well?_ Would you like to try it, then – I take it wifey’s not interested?”

It takes a couple of seconds for B to register everything Joan has said to him. “No, she’s not; that’s why I keep them… _What!_ _This–? Now?!”_ B nearly faints. Maybe because all the blood’s left his noggin and is flying south for the holidays.

 _Phew, what a relief,_ thinks Joan. _It’s on!_ “Oh, I think we can spare the time. Come on, then, lad, hop to it! Does that door lock?”

Hands shaking, B finds and uses the key, exulting within. No; his wife might have, once…but now… Maybe it’s because of the kids; they are the priority at home, of course, bless’em. Urgently alert, B hangs his jacket on the knob of the locked door – aha! Try spying through _that!_

He turns to look, and there – here, rather, in his own _easy_ chair – is the stunning Joanie, still in her cap but – oh, just for him! – with her dress off (hung neatly over the other chair’s back, to avoid creases) and the dropped-down top of her slip brushing a cushion she’s thoughtfully laid on her lap. What a sport she is! He can see her corselet, or whatever they call it these days, stuffed to the gunnels with its eminently arousing contents. It’s really happening! She’s playing the game! He grabs a towel and goes meekly over to the goddess.

“P-please would you undo my trousers, nurse? I can’t seem to manage.”

It feels natural to Joan, now she’s taken the plunge – like a legit play they’re easily writing together as they go along. She is instantly and calmly in character, too. “Yes, of course, dear boy, since you asked me so politely.” Swiftly dealing with both belt and buttons, the woman pulls B’s trousers down a little, then, gasping, unhooks his straining red pants. By Jingo! It seems not to matter that it had been impossible to go and fetch that bonnet from Wardrobe. She starts to feel powerfully her effect on him. If only the scenario had been even _more_ …well, never mind, this is admirable.

“We’ll have to do something about THAT, young man! Place your napkin upon my knee and sit down.” Joan had actually wanted to say, ‘…that unhealthy swelling,’ but realised just in time that she would have corpsed – and so, definitely, would her partner in crime! Understanding atmosphere to be all-important, she put her laughter aside for later, distracting herself with unhooking her foundations. B is fearing meanwhile that he may ‘lose it’ in quite a different and more ruinous manner – which would be way too soon! Because the wonderful woman is finally peeling down her stiff underpinnings and he’s about to witness his dream come true.

His line. “Thank you so much, Miss, I honestly don’t deserve your kindness.” And here there is no need for acting. Reclining under her free bounty, nestled dreamily against her, he softly welcomes her left nipple into his mouth; right arm around the good lady’s waist as though for a romantic waltz, left hand reverently cradling her heavy right breast; melting into the photogravure _mise en scène._

What larks! Joan had forgotten quite how much she loved this sensation, and the respectful young man doesn’t seem put off by her mature figure – in fact, she suspects it’s part of her attraction for him. She considers the rather fierce expression on the face of the lady in the photo. Yes, the man was being babied, but he also wants a telling-off, doesn’t he? It’s a fair bet that bad little B still has those same wandering hands she heard so many complaints about during her job on the ballroom episode. Yes, that gangster role was great fun – plus, on that job she’d had a bit of a smoochiecoo with Grae and, until five minutes ago, had hoped for a repeat.

Ah, now she has her ‘source of anger’ as they would have put it at RADA – rejection is a wounding thing at her age. Incidentally, she starts to have sympathy for Jean, if her husband’s behaviour is allowed to get any worse. Savouring the tickle of luxuriant beard on the sensitive skin of her frontage, she nevertheless turns a serious face toward the little man’s half-closed eye, observing him becoming perhaps too happy. I’ll give him a scare!

“You are indeed fortunate that I have not chosen to deal more severely with you. It has been brought to my attention – from the _makeup girls…”_ Joan takes B’s most decidedly adult crown jewels in her right hand and gives them a mock punishment tweak, carefully controlled so as not to do too much harm, “…that YOU are a _very_ naughty boy.” B lets a small tear escape from the corner of his eye as she gives him a cross shake. But she’d judged aright. She is soon sighing with pleasure herself as her subject responds rapturously to his reprimand by attending even more keenly to both of her regal breasts simultaneously. She continues, awash with wicked pleasure; “But, then…aah! I’ve always loved _naughty_ boys the _very_ best of all!”

The chastised B has to ease off her gorgeous nipple occasionally to sob with quiet pleasure, as Matron’s cool, firm hand deals next with his resurgent naughty swelling by means of the universally approved manual procedure. He is sternly informed that he is _not_ allowed to interfere in the process using his left hand – it is injured and must be allowed to heal. Nurse knows best and bad boys must submit themselves meekly to her professional treatment. Luckily for B, this practitioner appears to be very well-trained and it isn’t long before, in the natural way of things, the carefully positioned towel serves its purpose – to save the iconic trousers from their fulfilled, overflowing owner. Oh, Glory!

Matron sits her tired, bonny babe up and indulges him with ‘just one’ bare-breasted, parting kiss...which starts to get pleasurably heavy. She _must_ remember not to make contact during that bedtime scene, or the cameras will surely find them out! God, he’s a great kisser, and knows how to make a girl feel tingles with his mouth – now on her lips, proven skill on a nipple…and so, probably…well: let’s just say that I bet this bumble bee’s top of the class wherever he alights! Ooh, I wish I dared ask him… Yes, I think I might chance it after the show; he obviously worships—

Just as it seems as though they have entered a timeless dream, there’s a sharp knock at the door and a barely-broken male voice. “Mr Oddie? You’re due in Makeup in five! … Oh, er, have you seen Miss Sims anywhere, please?”

“No, sorry,” B calls back to the worried runner, from the lap of luxury – crossing his fingers, shutting his eyes and trying not to gasp or, worse, giggle.

Said sporty lady exclaims under her breath: “Balls! Sorry, darling, time to go – I’ve never missed a call in my entire career and I don’t intend to blot my copybook now. You must have heard the saying, ‘You’re only ever as good as your last job’?”

“In that case, Joanie, you’re a holy fucking saint!” grins B, reluctantly leaving her warm embrace and getting to his feet.

“Pfft, and _you_ are a _sweetie,_ you gorgeous, rude boy. Now, don’t forget to lock that magazine away, Billikins!” She’s rapidly re‑dressing as she speaks; B quickly neatens himself up as well. “Do you know, that was highly enjoyable for _me,_ too! Thank you for the inspiration, you young imp!” On goes the cinching belt and she’s looking as pure as the driven again. Which she surely is, in Bill’s eyes. It’s _good_ to share the fun and make others happy, isn’t it? He shrugs on his mmm‑fab jacket with a lightheaded swagger and runs his fingers through his shining hair.

Prinking her cap beside him, Jolly Joan gives B a pink smile and pats his cheeky mauve bottom. “See you in Makeup, Master Smooth!”

And the ministering angel is flitting happily out of the door, feeling twenty years younger, before he can think to ask for help with the bothersome buttons. Dizzy B, his tongue hanging out for sheer joy, shrugs his shoulders, shoves the mag back in its envelope and locks it up with a triumphant bang and bags of new memories. Locker key around wrist (essential; can’t trust a soul in this den of iniquity) although, damn! it won’t quite seem to slide right inside his secret watchstrap pocket as usual – just too excited I suppose, belted but unbuttoned, he sprints out after Joanie. Might catch a glimpse of her toddling rear view if he’s quick, wahey!

By some unholy science, although B could swear he hadn’t heard him leave his dressing room, Grae’s already in the chair, looking as sleek as an oiled ferret, as B skids into place beside him. The nice new makeup girl is attentively making G up, and B’s left with the one who seems to wear armour in her vest.

“Howdy, pardner,” drawls B, managing a poker face for once. G gives him an old-fashioned look. Their guest star, at the other end of the room, smirks proudly into her mirror. She’ll deliver that long speech brilliantly now.

Tim is sure he’s being withheld some spicy secret, which riles him no end. He takes his leave and heads for the set with his script bag – _he_ was sensibly early. Fine; he’ll quiz the runners – not much eludes them.

Needless to say, the wary makeup girl thinks it’s a trap when B begs her to help him do up his flies properly. Grae just laughs meanly and leaves him to struggle with his flash, eyewatering trousers. B isn’t bothered. He’s loving life today.

“Ah, sod it. Who flares, dares! They won’t be on for long, will they? I’ll just keep moving and no-one will see.”

And, with this, BumblyB – the hairiest, most uninhibited flowerbabe known to man (and especially woman) – goes gaily on set with a couple of buttons still open. _Did you spot it in ‘Way Outward Bound’, after the dressing gown came off? And did you notice how excited B was to be put to bed by Matron and kissed – even though they were only air-kisses? And did you espy the mystery key glinting at his wrist in the dark (as he indulged in unclean thoughts about matron under the wooden sheets)? So, now you know what it all meant._

**_AllegedlyYourHonourAndThenHeWokeUp_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Joan Sims, 1930-2001; I hope that she would have enjoyed this story  
> (and that she managed a few more larks with B after the show).  
> Grab hold of love if you come across it and hang on tight x


End file.
